


Things That You Said

by CCNilesBabcock



Category: The Nanny
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 10:54:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16931958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CCNilesBabcock/pseuds/CCNilesBabcock
Summary: A collection of Niles and C.C. oneshots - of stories that describe little (but meaningful) moments in their relationship over the years. A collection of "things they said" - things they said at 1 a.m., things they said when they thought the other wasn t listening, things they said when they were the happiest they ever were... Things they said to finally fall in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Hey there! So, a little while ago I saw this a post on tumblr titled "Things that you said...". Basically, it is a collection of prompt ideas and the idea is to write a oneshot per prompt, all of which have to be centred around the idea of "Things that you said...". For example, "Things that you said at 1a.m.", "Things that you said through your teeth", "Things that you said that I wished you hadn't", "Things that you said when you were at your happiest", etc.
> 
> So, I've decided to make this fic a collection of prompts! Basically, I'll be writing a oneshot per prompt idea.
> 
> The prompts will be narrated in second person, and the point of view will vary. Sometimes it will be Nile's POV and some other times it will be C.C.'s POV. Anyway, hope you like it and I'd love to get your reviews!
> 
> L.

_**1 – Things that you said at 1 a.m.** _

You hear her. Despite the music booming in the background and despite the cheerful (yet deafening)voices of the rest of the attendants, you hear her.

"The truth is, I am lonely."

That's what she says as she leans into the balcony railing and her eyes get lost in the horizon, melancholy and unfocused – this is when you think that, maybe, going to the terrace was a good idea after all. There is more silence. More… privacy, maybe? Is it possible to have privacy in the middle of a wedding ceremony? You don't really know, and you don't care either – not to mention that the twelve scotches you've already drowned down are keeping you from having any clarity of mind.

You look into the horizon as well, and for a moment, you enjoy the mesmerising sight of New York City spreading out right before your eyes, with its shining lights, crowded streets and buzzing nightlife – the city that never sleeps, right? But seconds later, you find yourself going back to her words, and the beautiful scene before you becomes blurred. You decide to stop focusing on it, and it doesn't take long for the colours and buildings and signs to blend together, becoming nothing but a colourful blotch.

Her words were uttered with an almost tangible hurt, and you so want to tell her that you feel lonely as well. That finding yourself alone at yet another wedding is also hurting you. That seeing her hurt is making you suffer, too. But you don't speak – it's not the moment for you to say those things. It's not the moment for you to downplay her sadness with a pity party of your own.

But, even if you aren't brave enough to let her know how you feel, you want her to realise that she is not alone. Sheepishly, and after taking a deep confidence-building breath, you reach out for her hand and cover it with your own; you feel happy when she doesn't pull away. It's comforting, you have to admit... the feeling her hand underneath yours…

"So am I, Babcock," you whisper, loud enough for her to hear.

"Are you really, Niles?" she replies listlessly.

God knows you are. God knows the emptiness you feel when you go to bed alone every night, wondering about why love has been so cruel to you when it has been so kind to others, such as your employer and best friend. And there you are, fighting feelings that are too confusing and painful to even try to acknowledge them and holding the hand of the only person that makes you feel like you are not alone.

At times you hate her – why is she, of all people, the human being that you crave to hold at night? Why C.C. Babcock?

But your hate never stays for long… you know love is right behind it. Because, when the anger wears off, you find yourself daydreaming about a life with her. A life where you don't have to mask your love behind zingers or an endless prank war.

Because you are tired of this unending war.

And you suspect so is she.

There has been no winner up to now, and you both know there will never be one. You both are losers in this story, but you are too damn proud to wave the white flag.

You claim to hate each other; to be the bane of each other's life…

And yet here you are… together, at 1 a.m. in the morning, drunk and holding hands in a balcony at Maxwell and Fran's wedding. This is one of your rare truces – they never last long, but God knows just how much you need them from time to time.

"I really am, Babs," you say with unusual softness. "We are both quite lonely."

You would have never admitted this to her on any other night, but this isn't just another night. The truce is tacit, and so is the fact that you won't hold anything done or said against the other. Tonight is free game.

"At least we are lonely together," she says, turning to you and giving a wan smile.

"Isn't that what we've been doing for years already?" the words tumble out of your mouth before you have time to think about them, but you can't bring yourself to regret them. "Being lonely together?"

You observe her think… she is so beautiful when she allows her vulnerability to show… it makes you feel special. Special, because the beautiful and powerful woman in front of you doesn't show her weakness to just about anyone. It's further proof that, despite the pretended animosity between the two of you, she trusts you.

And then, after a small infinity slips past, she gives a small chuckle and nods. It's not a humorous chuckle, mind you, but rather a resigned one. Not that that matters when she comes to you or when you both wrap your arms around each other simultaneously.

"Yes..." C.C. whispers and lays her head on your shoulder. "We truly are lonely together."

"But this is not a night to be lonely," you say, pulling away to look into her eyes.

"And what do you propose we do about it? What should we, two chronically lonely people, do to keep the loneliness at bay?"

You smile down at her and use one of your hands to tuck a loose ringlet of golden hair behind her ear before you kiss her on the lips. Gently.

You swear you can feel the warmth of your kiss righ in the centre of your soul. It is short, yet loving and filled with an emotion and meaning you don't really feel ready to even think about them.

Honestly, you don't want to think of anything at all.

You just want to hold (and be held by) her. You want the happiness only she can give you.

"We go home," you finally say, smiling, as you separate your lips from hers. "That's what we do."

"Home…" she repeats, mirroring your smile. "Let's go then."

You don't need to clarify what you mean by home – both of you know it means the Sheffield mansion. Deep down, however, there is a hopeful part of you that suspects that, even if there was no mansion, home would be wherever you feel like going, as long as you are together.

You know words won't be needed, and you certainly don't speak as you sneak away from the party, not caring about saying goodbye to anyone.

No one else matters.

 _Not tonight_.

Your guards are down and you've agreed on a temporary truce. You don't think about what is going to happen tomorrow morning or if this is just another part of an endless string of mistakes, because, truly, you don't care.

She is there and so are you. Nothing else matters.

And, at least for tonight, everything is right with the world.


	2. 2 - Things that you didn't say at all

The pleasant, if oddly relaxing, crackling of the fire burning in the hearth, is the only noise that you hear for almost an hour and a half. The living room is in a pleasant semidarkness; all the lights are out, and the soft incandescence of the flames is the only source of light in room. They cast long shadows over the Persian carpet that lays before the fireplace, and you simply allow yourself to enjoy from inattentively gazing at the flickering flames dancing around the burning logs, curling this way or the other as they reduce them to ashes.

The family has long since gone to bed, and you can't help the envy creeping up your spine when you think about them sound asleep in their beds, being kept perfectly warm and content by their fine bedsheets and also by the overwhelming feeling of love and togetherness that seems to float in the air around you – a feeling that, due to it being so foreign to you, makes you feel…  _out of place_. Like you don't belong. Like you aren't supposed to be there…

But Maxwell and Nanny Fine had insisted –  _"Nonsense!"_  they'd said,  _"You have to stay after having gone through such an ordeal."_

Truth was, you hadn't wanted – and still didn't want to – stay there.

It just didn't feel right…

You gave up on trying to sleep when it became painfully obvious that your attempts at resting would be fruitless. Instead, you chose to tiptoe out of your room and towards the living room, in search of a sort of comforting warmth that you knew would be easily obtained by snuggling on the sofa next to the fireplace. In your hurry, you forgot to grab your nightdress, and although it is rather cold, you don't really mind.

Despite your lack of warm clothes, you don't feel cold. Actually, the fire is starting to make you feel a bit hot. You are currently curled up in the spot nearest to the fireplace – your favourite. This, combined with your own body heat, is more than enough to keep you warm and cosy. So cosy, in fact, that you decide to close your eyes, lay your chin on the palm of your hand and prop your elbow on the armrest, all in hopes that Morpheus will finally claim you.

Sleep still doesn't come, but you feel more relaxed than when you were upstairs, lying on your bed. For the first time that night, you manage to take your mind off everything that happened in Boston. All the pesky thoughts, all of your fears and hopelessness fade away as you drift into a semi-awake state – that hazy state of semi-consciousness where you aren't asleep, but you are not exactly aware of that's going on around you, either. Being in that sort of sleep limbo allows your tense body to relax somewhat, and the more you relax, the more you can actually feel sleep beginning to envelop your tired mind.

It's only a matter of moments now…

Just a few moments and you-

**_Snap._ **

Your mini-nap is brought to an abrupt end when you hear a set of feet padding towards you. There is no need for you to turn around to know who is coming. After all, you've been hearing those same paces for over a decade now. You could never confuse the sound of his footsteps with someone else's. They are etched in your memory, and you suddenly find yourself thinking about how you wouldn't have it any other way.

But as much as you like to joke about him being a graceless behemoth, you have to admit that his footsteps are actually rather light and gracile – something that comes in handy when he is sneaking around the house and eavesdropping on people's conversations.

His even and constant footfalls are perfectly spaced from one another, and they create a sort of melody as he covers the distance between the kitchen and the living room.

The sound of his feet impacting against the carpeted floor helps to calm you down after your ordeal. It is a noise that has a certain comforting familiarity obtained from the many years you've spent around each other. It has become a sort of habit, maybe. One that you've come to depend on.

You begin thinking about how, before tonight, you had taken seeing him on a daily basis as an unquestionable and unchanging truth – something that was guaranteed. A fact. And never in your life did it occur to you that, perhaps, there would come a day when you'd be worried about not seeing him again – about him becoming a memory.

You shake yourself out of it; he hasn't become a memory – neither have you, for that matter – everything is fine…  _you_  are fine… but you are not willing to take everything for granted anymore.

Slowly, you open your eyes and put your legs down, leaving some free space on the sofa for the butler to sit down. As he does so, you notice he is holding a cup of hot cocoa in each hand, and you silently accept yours when he hands it to you. He also has a blanket tucked underneath his arm, but you know you don't need to mention it, he knows what to do.

As if on cue, you are proved right only moments later, when he unfolds the blanket and throws it over your shoulders.

He says nothing afterwards, and neither do you.

Truly, neither of you are really sure of what to say.

It sometimes amuses you just how easy it is to communicate with each other when you are in the midst of one of your many fracas. But whenever you find yourself alone with each other in moments like this, silence becomes the norm. You can feel the unspoken words floating around you, like invisible ghosts; they drift through the increasingly crowded room, and they begin piling up – in corners, on the tables, on your shoulders…

 _Everywhere_.

It makes you feel the magnitude of what happened. Or rather, of what could have happened.

You can still see everything with horrifying clarity if you close your eyes – the car skidding off the road and stamping itself against a mound of crisp, white snow. You remember the panic that slowly invaded you when your mind grasped the fact that the car was stuck, and that the heating would eventually die, just like you would have if help hadn't arrived on time.

But most of all, you remember the sharp pain that you felt in your heart when a flood of unwanted thoughts of never seeing him again overtook you. You felt desperate, and all the things that you'd never said to him were practically screaming to be let out – you'd wanted to tell Niles that you love him, you'd wanted to tell him that, if only one more time, you wanted to feel his arms around you and his lips on yours. That you wanted – still want to – experience the warmth of his love enveloping you and making you feel that you belong somewhere… that you belong to  _someone_.

It took the police two hours to get you back home – or, at least, to what they thought was your home. You recall they never asked where you lived; they'd simply assumed you were part of the Sheffield family…

But as you observed Maxwell, Nanny Fine and the children hugging, you began to feel… that you didn't belong. Like you were a mere intruder, allowed to see the happiness laid before you like a feast, but not allowed to experience it or even get near it. The notion that you never really had that kind of love in your life, crept into your heart…

The warm embrace of home and the comfort of knowing that you are loved by someone, were just as foreign to you as poverty was.

It made you want to weep for some reason. So you tiptoed to the backdoor, muttering an excuse about being thirsty and going to get a glass of water that fell on deaf ears – after all, why would they listen to you when they had each other?

You remember deciding to forestall the unwanted display of weakness. God knows your big mouth had said too much while in the car, so you decided to save yourself the embarrassment of having to tacitly acknowledge your own loneliness by running back to your penthouse. You remember rummaging your handbag for the damned car keys while you thought about how much you wanted to put an end to your torrid day. You craved to get home and bury yourself underneath the blankets, with a bottle of your best bourbon clutched in your hand.

But just as your fingers made contact with the cold metal surface of your keys, you felt a warm, familiar hand being laid on your shoulder. Just like with his footsteps, you know his hands too well to confuse them with anyone else's. That's why you remember halting your movements and tensing – it had been obvious that you were trying to escape…

You thought he was going to laugh. That he was going to toss a zinger your way before letting you continue your way to your lonely penthouse – your lair, as he likes to call it.

But nothing of the sort happened.

Instead, he tenderly pulled you to him, and without saying anything, he wrapped you in the tightest embrace you'd ever experienced. He didn't say anything, and neither did you – words hadn't been needed. His actions spoke louder than any words he could have offered you. In that embrace, he'd wordlessly told you just how much he cared for you.

Just how much he'd dreaded losing you.

You remember holding him back, but you can't remember for how long…

It felt like hours – an eternity even – and it was you who eventually decided to let go of him.

You appreciated him not saying anything right then. You both knew that you wouldn't have been able to offer any answers to any of hid questions, even if you'd wanted to…

Although, as you think back, you start to suspect that, for once in his life, Niles had been rendered speechless.

Fear – especially the fear of losing a loved one – is one of the most effective ways to silence a person.

You know that he wordlessly asked you to stay with him when he gave you that hug – that he needed you to stay for a little while until the dread had faded away. You would have never imagined that staying those extra minutes would result in you spending the night at the mansion, but at this point there is nothing that you can do about it.

And if you are being honest, his presence makes you feel safe.

It always has...

His unusual lack of comments doesn't go unnoticed by you – he is giving you a break, you know that, and you appreciate it. This is just another one of your truces…

You can't help but notice just how frequently they've been occurring.

He brings you back to reality by wrapping an arm around your shoulders, and you readily snuggle against his side. You lay your head in the crook of his chest, and he brings your legs up so you can rest them across his lap.

You try not to think about how intimate this position is or about how one of his hands is rubbing your back in circular motions. Because you know that if you think (or even speak) too much, the spell will be broken, and you like this feeling of wellbeing and safeness too much to have it snatched away from you.

Everything between you two is complicated, so the less questions asked, the better. None have been asked so far, and you'd rather it stays that way.

In your _… relationship?…_  actions usually matter more than words do.

It takes only a few minutes for you two to finish your hot cocoa, and you leave the two mugs on the coffee table before you go back to cuddling. It's the most comfort you've felt in ages…

Deep down you know the reason behind this, but you don't intend to venture near those reasons.

It's too dangerous.

You have him now, and you know it's probably wiser to enjoy from one of your brief but oh-so-satisfying truces than to try and understand what exactly is going on between you two.

Eventually, you begin feeling sleepy; perhaps it's the soft melody that he is humming what is lulling you to sleep. You don't know. You don't care, either. You just bask in the feeling of being able to hear his voice rumbling in his chest, and he only stops his soft humming to tentatively place a kiss on the crown of your head.

You suddenly wish that this was your every evening – cuddling together before the fire while being pervaded by a pleasant languor. This is the epitome of domestic bliss, but sadly, you know it won't last forever. There are too many things in the way – too many things that would need to be discussed for you two to even attempt to try doing this again. You aren't good with feelings – you've never been – so you prefer to take advantage of what fate has so kindly given you without asking.

Morning will come, just like it came after Max and Fran's wedding, and you'll move on. Or at least you hope so…

Lately it has become oddly difficult to let go, and you don't dare to ask yourself why.

"Let's go," he says, uttering the first words of the night and bringing you out of your musings.

You nod, but you don't speak. You know where you are going, and you can only let him take you there. His room is just a few doors away from the one that has been given to you, so you resolve to simply slip back to your own bed in the morning.

The last conscious thought that you have as you lie in his bed, wrapped in his arms, is that you don't want morning to come at all.


	3. 3. Things that you siad after we kissed

_Warmth_.

Warmth and a meaningful quietness dance into the room with a sort of noticeable subtleness the moment your lips touch Niles's. And for once in your (admittedly) vacuous life, you actually feel a foreign sense of peace and belonging nestling in the centre of your very soul.

It's almost like time has stopped; like you have just chosen to bring the elaborate charade – which is only held together by a number of absurd prejudices, empty words and well-practiced motions – to a brief halt.

 _A standstil_ l.

You can't quite put your finger on it, but you are certain that something inside you has shifted – nay, something inside you i _s currently shifting_. Moving. Changing. Blossoming, perhaps?

A momentous and inevitable breach in the continuum of identical days, which you also happen to call life.

 _Niles_  is kissing  _you_.

Or are  _you_  kissing  _Niles_?

You are kissing  _each other_.

You reword it in your head over and over again as you open your mouth to allow his tongue in, but deep down you know semantics won't change the facts. You are, after all, a cold and highly logical person, hence it is clear to you that there is no sense in trying to delude yourself; it won't help the disconcerting situation in which you currently find yourself.

You've kissed men before – heck, you have even kissed Niles before! Yes, it's true, your first lip-to-lip interaction was the result of a series of unfortunate events masterminded by the man that is currently holding you close, but it was a kiss nonetheless.

But, unlike that time, this kiss is not a sort-of-intentional accident – no, it is very much wanted, the catalyst having been your inebriated temper (which, you begrudgingly admit, is volatile in extreme even without the aid of a couple of strong drinks) and a really bad day.

All you remember before crashing your mouth against his, is a blinding rage boiling inside you as you exchanged caustic comments with the butler. Maxwell's rejection was still fresh – almost an open wound – and the humiliation you were subjected to when he tricked you into clucking like a chicken only made you want to rip his mocking smirk from his face. The string of insults in the living room was merely the straw that broke the camel's back.

And yet, all of this is just so... infuriating! So tiring and painful...

You don't usually like to think much about it, but in moments like this you can't help but be aware of just how much his sharp words hurt. You two have had an ongoing feud for decades, and even if you stoically keep your head held up high even in defeat, there is a part of you that is growing tired of fighting Niles. It is close to giving in, like a runner would feel like doing after having covered most of the distance in a seemingly endless race.

You are so tired of pretending. So tired of partaking in a pointless (yet sometimes entertaining) war. The kiss is making you confused – confused by your feelings for Maxwell, by your antithetical feeling for Niles, by your own actions towards the butler and by his actions towards you, by your desire for him...

Sometimes nothing in your life makes any sense.

You've been infatuated with Maxwell for decades now... but at the same time, Niles inhabits your mind almost as much as the British producer does. It's conflicting, to say the least; you know how you should feel about Maxwell, whereas your feelings for Niles are a mystery that has yet to be unraveled.

Now, this brings you back to the matter at hand – you are kissing Niles. And, paradoxically enough, his lips against yours feel both divine and dreadfully sinful.

Divine, because you have never felt as fulfilled as you are currently feeling

Sinful, because this is breaking the established status quo that has defined your daily interactions for the past fifteen years.

You are torn between wanting to push him away and pulling him closer.

You want to tear his clothes from his body while also wanting to never feel his skin against yours again.

You want to kiss him senseless but you also want to run far, far away from him.

Your subconscious clearly makes a choice, though, because you begin threading your fingers through his hair while relishing in the feeling of his arms around you.

The world that surrounds you slowly melts away, leaving you suspended in a timeless and indistinct fraction of the universe.

In a sense, this is a small interlude between the acts of a play that you still don't know whether to classify as a comedy or as a tragedy. A play that has only you and Niles as characters.

A play that you sometimes wish you weren't part of.

But the interlude comes to an end far too soon (or maybe not soon enough). There is no orchestra to mark the beginning of a new act with the soft sound of their instruments; instead, you hear the sudden banging of a door and the clicking of heels against the tiled floor.

It takes you off-guard. So off-guard that you are the last to pull away.

However, you are the first one to practically jump back on stage.

The spell is broken.

The show is on.

You get back in character in the blink of an eye and Niles follows. What happened backstage is now but a shadow – a shadow you desperately want to run away from.

Your two spectators watch in silent astonishment while you go through the well practiced motions. You coolly say your goodnights to them as you nearly dive for the door, making sure to avoid Maxwell's and Nanny Fine's gaze at all times.

The door is soon open and the way is free...

But something keeps you in place.

You know what that something is, of course, so you quickly turn around to look at Niles in the eyes. The silence between you couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, but for the both of you it is just a little bit short of an infinity.

You don't need words. It is tacit that this is just one of the many moments that shall never be discussed again. You can almost see yourself folding it and tucking it into a small safe in the deepest corner of your mind – the corner that you choose to avoid on a daily basis.

Maybe it's cowardly to do so – actually, it is cowardly to do so, but you simply cannot deal with what lies there, hidden and restrained, but at the same time craving to come into the light.

Opening that Pandora box would simply ruin everything...

And worst of all – the show would come to an end.

At least for now, the tiredness of the performance is not as great as the fear of finding out the end of this story.

"Swine," you hiss, staring daggers at him.

"Chicken."

Ah...

Well...

 _Checkmate_.

A brilliant move indeed.

So you concede defeat only moments before continuing your way. You know he is watching you leave, so you hold your head up high, as always.


	4. 4-Things That You Said Too Quietly

The faint humming of the car engine is the only noise you can bring yourself to tolerate at the moment. God knows your thoughts are loud enough for you to have to listen to any other annoying sound! The noise in your head reminds you of static – the sort of static that blares from the T.V. whenever the antenna is not working. It is unsettling, and on top of everything, it is an impediment for you to have any clarity of mind.

You try to focus on the road ahead of you; on the cars whizzing past you, their drivers completely unaware of the silent cataclysm that is going on around them.

You can actually see the world coming apart at the seams – but why can't anyone else see it? How can everyone be so blissfully unaware of the world collapsing right beneath your feet? How can everyone ignore the furious storm that has reduced your life to an indistinct pile of debris?

You would have never thought it possible for the world to become colourless, but without her, everything has become less…  _vivid_. Colours, scents, sounds… they've become less sharp, or maybe less real – it is almost as if you now find yourself separated from the world by a delicate veil. You feel cold. So very, very cold…

Warmth and sunshine slipped away from your grasp the moment she did.

And the guilt…

The guilt makes you feel like someone has tied a titanic burden to your shoulders, but you know better than to claim you don't deserve it. Because you do deserve it – you deserve the pain and the suffering for your transgression, and deep within your heart, you wish it was you instead of her living inside that damn treatment centre.

Why were you so foolish? Why were you so cruel?! You could see she was struggling! And yet what did you do? What did you choose to do?!

You chose to push her over the edge for the sake of having the upper hand.

Back in the day, mastering the art of Victorian dances required patience, finesse, and overall, dedication. Etiquette had to be thoroughly respected at all times and there could be no false steps or mishaps. Similarly, your...  _relationship?_... with C.C. Babcock follows a strict code – your actions have to be predictable, follow a certain pattern and stick to the rules.

And somewhere along the way, not acting upon your true feelings became one of the cornerstones of your dynamic. You took to hiding them behind jibes, snide remarks, catty comments and pranks. It was a fun game for many years, but lately... well...

Let's just say that things have spiralled out of control.

But you never imagined that it would lead to this. You never imagined that she would be pushed over the edge.

It's always the same when you visit her at the hospital – you arrive to her room, where you usually find her either cuddled up in her bed or sat on her armchair. Even if she knows your name (purely because you told it to her) she still doesn't remember who you are. At any rate, you dare to say that she enjoys your company, for she has taken a liking to telling you about everything she does – such her therapy sessions, the books that she's been reading, her thoughts on the movie that you two saw the previous night or even about the little annoyances she experiences during the day…

Still, regardless of her newfound trust in you, there is no indication that she truly and really knows who you are.

Right now, to her you are just a kindly stranger.

You've been trying to bring her back to you by whispering soft zingers in her ear when she is asleep – nothing too bad, of course, but you hold the hope that one of them will be enough to guide her back to you. You hope that, maybe, if you irk her enough, she will open her eyes and they will have regained that mischievous glimmer that has long since fled her gaze.

So far you have been unsuccessful.

She likes it when you stay until she falls asleep. Your presence makes her feel safe, and sometimes, when she's had a bad day, she allows you to stroke her hair. You whisper encouraging words to her ear; words threaded with all the love you hold for this wonderful woman…

You've noticed she seldom talks after sunset – you have a feeling that she fears nightfall, for the shadows that enshroud her room at night are a reflection of the overbearing darkness that inhabits her soul. But even now, she is too proud to admit that she is vulnerable. Fear, in her view, is a sin committed only by the weak. Ironically enough, not even the might Chastity-Claire Babcock can escape an emotion that is inherent to the human condition. Her brassy demeanour and combative attitude is but a façade to hide her fear from privy eyes; a bulwark of sorts, perhaps. The fact that she is still refusing to let her guard down makes you want to give into despair, for even if she accepts (and, you dare say, expects) your company, sharing her feelings and fears with you is still a transgression in her eyes.

She is, in a way, fighting two wars at once – she is fighting to recover from her breakdown, but at the same time there is a deep part of her that is fighting to keep her true emotions hidden and safeguarded from outsiders. There is no chance of winning both wars, for if she doesn't open up, she will never get better; and if she does open up, then she will be (in her view) bare and vulnerable in the eyes of the world, which is unacceptable.

C.C. Babcock can withstand many contrarieties, but the one thing she is not able to bear, is feeling vulnerable.

Pity that, in her position, vulnerability is inevitable.

Sometimes, when you least expect it, some of that vulnerability is exteriorised in the most inconspicuous ways. Examples of this are whenever she asks you to stay with her until she falls asleep or when she asks you to tuck her in at night. Being able to witness these rare moments – and being a protagonist of them as well – both make you want to weep and smile. Either way, they only serve to put your heart on the edge of your soul.

But today…

Today they made you want to weep.

You never thought that you'd live to see the day when C.C. Babcock admitted to being afraid of something, and yet today she proved you wrong. You were holding her hand when it happened – she had asked you to stay with her until she fell asleep, and as usual, you took the seat next to her bed and held her hand. Moments before drifting off, she looked up at you through clouded eyes and whispered: "I am scared, Niles. _"_

_I am scared, Niles._

The words sounded like a loud and damning echo in your head, but in reality, they were said so softly… so faintly… so  _quietly_ … that you wondered if she really wanted you to hear them.

The medication – which is given to her every night and which you dread for it always takes her away from you without the possibility of sharing a coherent farewell – made effect only seconds later; she was completely under by the time you managed to make a sound.

This medication-induced admission is a blow to your already battered heart – it is a proof that C.C. – your C.C., you allow yourself to think – is still trapped in the darkest corner of her mind. Lost, broken and scared. And it is all your fault.

Her words were nothing but a brief instant of clarity, and tomorrow she'll be gone again.

But you won't. You won't be gone.

You are going to be there – there to guide her back to you and back to real life, where she is needed. No matter how long it takes, you will never give up. You will never give  _her_ up.

And that, you know, is a promise.


	5. 5-Things you said that I wish you hadn't

You suppose this is what being shot feels like.

First, the sudden hard impact of the bullet against your body; then, the dull ache as it buries itself deep within your insides; and lastly, the utter shock when you reach the ineffable conclusion that you will most likely bleed to death.

You haven't been shot. You aren't going to die, either. At least not physically.

Your dignity, on the other hand, is currently waiting for its funeral.

You refuse to look up at him as he goes up the stairs, towards his bedroom and out of your life for good. You are well aware of the two pairs of eyes fixed on you, and you also know you have to manage some sort of coherent explanation (excuse) to what has just happened…

_Wait…_

No. You don't have to do that. You  _won't_  do that. What for, anyway? What good could it make? The masks have finally come off, the truth has been spat in your face – all your dirty little flaws, plain and ready for the world to see. Maxwell and Fran heard; you needn't put up a strong front for them. Not that you want to, either.

Generally speaking, you have no qualms whatsoever about being subjected to brutal honesty. What is more, you prefer it. Why sugar-coat things? That's not how life works, and you strive for excellency. Nothing less than perfection for you, right? But boy, you never imagined the truth could be so sharp and cut so deep.

_"You are going to spend the rest of your life pining for a man who doesn't love you, and who's married a woman half your age. Look around you, they are married, they are starting a family; where are you going to be in ten, twenty years from now? You'll be saying Merry Christmas to your friends in rehab and wondering what might have been."_

His words still ring in your ears.

Like a damning echo.

A guilty verdict.

A truth you have refused to see for all these years.

He is right – you don't even try to deny it. Niles the Butler, perennial enemy and bantering partner, is fucking right. It kills you to concede defeat, but when the truth is spat in your face with no sort of compassion or restraint, what else is there to do but to take it in stride? You can't hide from the facts – you know they are true, and so does he.

He's always known you better than anyone else.

Perhaps even better than yourself.

Or maybe, he has the guts that you don't have to face the dirt you've been hiding under the carpet.

You've always known you are damaged, just a little bit broken, but you've always hoped your hard shell was enough to hide your flaws. Vulnerability never did anything for you; letting people in always proved to be a mistake. A lonely childhood and an even lonelier adulthood were certainly detrimental to your capacity to trust people. But you've learnt to live with that side of yourself. You've gotten used to never giving yourself to anyone – not entirely. Not anymore, at least. You've gotten used to betting and losing, and your heart has always been your bargaining chip.

It's a men's world, baby, and women who want to be on top quickly learn that success entails being a cold-hearted bitch. And you've certainly proved yourself to be capable of being colder, meaner, smarter and more vicious than the toughest macho. Eat or be eaten. Period.

Somehow, that philosophy escaped the realm of your work and seeped, like some kind of poisonous fungus, into every aspect of your life. You've never loved anyone with everything you had, you've never experienced unconditional friendship, and most of all, you've never given you the chance to put your guard down.

You are a fighter, alright, but even the most resilient of warriors eventually crumbles down, like a dry leaf in autumn.

You wish he hadn't said those things, though. You hate him for doing so. You hate him for forcibly removing the veil and facing you with the painful truths you avoid. Neither of you are particularly open about the major failures in your lives, but the difference between Niles and you is that he is a genuinely caring person. He is approachable, he has friends, loved ones who care – he has an ability that, frankly, escapes the scope of your limited experience with interpersonal relationships.

He was willing to bare his heart to you, knowing you could squash it without giving it so much as a second thought (which you did). He knew it could happen, and yet he went through with it.

And you don't get it.

And that angers you. It makes you feel like a failure. It makes you see just how much of a fuck up you are.

Because, yes, you've pined for a man who's never loved you. A man that, despite your best efforts, chose another woman to be his wife. The worst part is that you know that you don't love him. It's mainly the fact that, for once, your diligence and your carefully drawn plans didn't work out. You lost to Nanny Fine (it was clear when she married Maxwell), and yet you were pathetic enough to harbour the hope of Maxwell ditching her – somehow realising that he'd made a mistake, and that you are the woman for him.

You aren't the woman for him.

And he isn't the man for you.

But your pride… you are too prideful for your own damn good sometimes.

Admitting defeat was, ultimately, what you refused to do. You don't lose.

What you failed to see, was that, by continuing to play, you became an even bigger loser.

And now… what's left for you at the mansion?

Maxwell is no longer available, since the wedding your work has become awfully monotonous, and Niles, the bane of your existence and perhaps the closest thing you've ever had to a friend, is leaving.

So are you.

You make the choice then, as Maxwell and Fran look at you with pity in their eyes.

"My God," you finally mutter, smiling an odd smile – a smile that doesn't want to be there but stubbornly sticks around, "he is right."

You take a few heavy paces towards the foyer table and clutch your handbag in your hands. You hold onto it as if it were some kind of teddy bear. It anchors you to reality, when part of you wants to slip away and fade into oblivion for a while.

You are well aware the recorder is there, but you don't take it. You don't want it. You only wish to forget.

You are going to forget, for better or for worse.

Even if, for the first time, the pain of leaving someone behind is nearly unbearable.

Curiously enough, the absence that weights heavier on you, has a pair of sky-blue eyes.

Oh, the irony…

As they say, God works in mysterious ways.

There is an uncomfortable heat behind your eyes, but you won't allow tears. It's the last ounce of dignity you have left – you aren't going to lose it. Not like this. And certainly not in front of them. So you force your smile, knowing it doesn't reach your eyes, but it's good enough to keep yourself together for a little while.

Maybe later, in the safety of your loneliness, you'll allow yourself to cry.


End file.
